“Actually, it is.” I returned the grin. “Fitted tux and everything.”
For the last two weeks, the two of us had engaged in a flirtatious game of did you catch me staring at the gym. In the end, it was me who had to saunter over and make the first move. A rather significant pet peeve. But one I was willing to forgive in light of his good looks. That and the new resolution I’d made to try to cultivate some kind of personal life.
“Hey, do me a favor.” I smoothed down my new dress, feeling suddenly nervous. “Make sure it’s Marco who plates the appetizer instead of Pierre. We don’t want another prosciutto incident, if you know what I’m saying...”
Melanie’s face pulled up in a sudden frown. “Oh—right.”
She hurried off to do my bidding, leaving me fidgeting in the middle of the lobby. The initial thrill of coming to an upscale place like this on my down time, instead of for work, had given way to a sudden surge of anxiety that almost turned me straight back to the door.
What the hell was I doing?
My dark hair was curled, for once, instead of ironed straight. My feet were stuffed into heels so high that even I was having trouble keeping balanced. My eyes were easily three times their normal size—thanks to a makeup artist who owed me a favor. And I was wearing a dress that cost well over half a month’s rent.
I’d left the tags on, for fuck’s sake. Tucked carefully down the side.
Don’t get me wrong. I was used to dressing up. I was used to fancy things—at least—a professional approximate that gained me entry to the types of places I needed to go to do my job.
But there was something different about this. Something that I couldn’t put my finger on until I caught
my reflection in a passing glass of champagne.
I look like one of my clients.
The thought stopped me cold. Freezing me with an unholy kind of fear.
But as quickly as it had come, it was soothed by another.
You always look like one of your clients. That’s one of the reasons you got this job in the first place. As long as you don’t act like one of your clients, you’re fine.
And so with that, I lifted up my chin and glided across the room to the sounds of Mozart drifting down from the quartet on the balcony just above. Ready to embark upon the kind of event I’d often dreamed of, but hadn’t experienced firsthand in longer than I cared to imagine.
Abigail Wilder goes on a date.
(For herself.)
Fuck it. I’ll never be smooth.
Chapter 2
“Ryan?”
The man jumped to his feet the second I walked over, all smiles. I beamed back and leaned in for the obligatory kiss on the cheek. It was then that I noticed he faltered slightly.
“It’s Cameron, actually.”
Cameron? I froze. Then why had I written the name Ryan on the inside of my palm just to remember? I’d thought myself so clever at the time—even though I was still desperately scrubbing it off as the taxi pulled up in front of the restaurant.
Who was Ryan? The pilot? The ice sculptor? Was he the caterer I’d been trying to get a hold of for—
NOPE! No work! You made a vow!
“Cameron, of course.” I tapped my head like it was the silliest thing in the world. “Sorry, I was just on the phone with my brother Ryan in the cab.”
Great—now I have a brother. Better write that down on my hand to remember it too.
I flashed an apologetic smile, and leaned over as I sank into my chair so he could see just the tiniest hint of cleavage. Everything was forgiven.
“Oh—I didn’t know you had a brother,” Cameron said brightly as he sat down as well.